By Michael Shook A few weeks ago, my wife returned from taking the Scotties on their morning walk, and informed me she had seen a squashed frog on the road. The younger Scottie, Walter, had lunged for it, no doubt to eat. She at first thought it to be a rat, albeit a misshapen one…
The most obvious method whereby I arrived here is “by boat,” which is, I admit, a dreadful and dreadfully weak attempt at humor, for which I blame a certain recalcitrant eight year-old in my head, who refuses to grow up, and who will not go away, either. I could also blame my father, who, like…